


Penitent

by Seethedawn



Series: Absolution [2]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Bickering, Forgiveness, Guilt, M/M, Past Violence, Trauma, Trust, When you need therapy, but youre 800 years too early for your appointment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:02:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25998715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seethedawn/pseuds/Seethedawn
Summary: Yusuf and Nicolò return to Jerusalem in peace.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: Absolution [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1887013
Comments: 12
Kudos: 135





	Penitent

**Author's Note:**

> Set in roughly 1220. (For reference, Jerusalem was retaken from the Crusaders in 1188.)
> 
> Follow-up to my How They Met fic, the only necessary point of reference is that I made Nicolò a monk instead of a preist and then also I made him die in a fire (sorry nicky).

They are so far east that desert mountains have given way to thick jungle, and by the time news reaches them, it has gone long stale. 

Salah Ad-Din has taken Jerusalem. He has expelled the Christians at a generous ransom, invited the return of the Jewish people, and made free the region, ending the so-called Frankish Kingdom of Jerusalem.

Yusuf lets out a raucous call of joy and relief. His traveling Muslim brothers invite him to stay with their camp that night, and he warmly accepts. He has spent more time by now among the foreign people of foreign lands than his lifetime in Tunis and the Levant, and familiar company is a wonderful opportunity. They tell him many stories; some bring grief, others make his heart sing with pride and love of his people.

It feels as though for a night he has stepped behind a veil, submerged into his old life. While he aches for his homelands, this company alone restores his spirit, and their glad news has Yusuf singing as he returns to his immortal companions.

"You enjoyed your night among the caravan?" Quynh greets him.

"Good men bearing great news," he agrees, giving her a quick kiss on her left cheek. "Where is Nicolò?"

She points him away and Yusuf goes.

"Nicolò!" He calls, once he is found, "news of the Levant! A great general of Islam, Salah Ad-Din, has retaken Jerusalem!"

Nicolò rushes to stand, blue eyes open wide in shock.

"It was nobly done," Yusuf reassures, not making Nicolò wait or inquire, "the Christian people were ransomed, and even those who could not pay were released on condition of leaving in peace. They have done so. Even their king was spared. It is ended."

A wide, relieved smile breaks across Nicolò's face, somehow further lightening Yusuf's own mood. He takes a few steps forward and clasps Yusuf about the arm, squeezing tightly before stepping away.

"This is good news, indeed!"

It has been over one hundred years since Nicolò lay siege to that city. Since Yusuf stood on those walls and looked out at the army of crusaders, just as Nicolò stood at their base and looked up to the city.

Yusuf feels that wall between them, still. And he would have it be done away.

"I will return to the city. I would see this marvelous thing with my own eyes."

Nicolò frowns now.

"You will leave? Our work here is not finished."

"The traders I met, they will allow me to travel with them when they return, I am sure of it, and Andromache will not mind. They plan to winter in this region, conduct their business and cross the mountains to the West again once the spring rains are past."

Yusuf is suddenly aflame with the idea. He will go back to Jerusalem, perhaps Baghdad as well, and Aleppo. He could even make his Pilgrimage - the possibilities are endless. He has been an immortal for only a century, but travel through his homelands never seemed possible, not when he was forced to flee in the aftermath of a cruel, needless war. But now...

"I would have you go with me,” he says.

Nicolò startles, cocking his head at Yusuf, confused and cautious.

"I will accompany you along the road, if you wish it, but I would not enter that city again."  
Where once Yusuf would have seen an uncaring dismissal, now he knows to press the matter.

"I must be mistaken," he says, with an arched brow, "I had the impression Jerusalem was a point of keen interest to your people."

Nicolò glares, but Yusuf sees how the bend in Nicolò's spine is weighted by his jest. Such signs of Christian guilt did Yusuf much good in the early days of their companionship. Nicolo's obvious and ongoing anguish allowed their days to pass peacefully. It has been a long time, now, since Yusuf tracked such signals, hoarding them away in his spirit, measuring them against the depth of his own pain and grief.

"The people would not welcome me, if they knew," Nicolò admits, ducking Yusuf's eye.

"Then the matter is settled," argues Yusuf, "as I am the last surviving defender of those battles, and so the only man to have seen you fight under that banner, you shall have to make do with my knowledgeable welcome."

Nicolò screws up his face, concentrating hard on parsing his words. Whether his difficulty stems from language or emotion, Yusuf cannot tell.

"I have not - I have not the right to enter that city. The stone itself would reject me. I have not yet earned it."

Christians and their deep-rooted sense of martyrdom. But Yusuf has a well-established response to Nicolò's guilt, and he draws on it now.

"It does not fall to me to offer you comfort on this." He moves to the doorway, signaling the end of their conversation. "It is my wish to visit the city. I invite you to join me."

Nicolò will not deny him, Yusuf knows.

It has been many years, other men have been born and lived and died, and their sons alike. All the while Jerusalem has stood between them, a dark, flaming memory with a long shadow. It is time now, Yusuf thinks, to douse this flame and step freely into the sunlight.

-

It is no small distance, to travel into the heart of the Arab world, with all of Seljuk Persia in their way, to start.

They walk more than sixty days to the west. The caravan stops to trade in towns where they are expected, or camps far in the desert known only to the initiated, where there can be found both fresh water and friendly faces.

Yusuf had been prepared to end up caretaking Nicolò, in truth. But Nicolò has a great capacity for adapting to change. They spend many days entirely apart, Yusuf at the front of the caraven, Nicolò toward the rear. Nicolò makes his own friendships, though slowly, as these people do not come to accept his presence as easily as they did Yusuf's. But Nicolò practices his Arabic as well as any other language they are willing to teach him. He learns the customs of these mountain lands, and Yusuf can admit himself truly impressed by Nicolò's efforts.

Yusuf privately is amused, the leader of their caravan appears to believe he has done Yusuf and Nicolò a great favor by "hiring" them as protectors, allowing them to accompany the group on their trail. Until, far from any aid, they are set upon in the night by bandits.

The caravan has its own measures of defense, each man has a sword, and there are bowmen, too. None of Quynh's fearsome skill, but that would be a rare thing. Nicolò and Yusuf fight valiantly to protect these men and their livelihoods. Through the confusion, Yusuf sees Nicolò fall, but he does not have the freedom to check.

It is a new fear, born of a single name spoken with immense grief: _Lykon_.

If Yusuf and Nicolò had known there were limits to their immortality, they might have fought more viciously outside Antioch, each pushing the other closer to this unknowable threshhold.

Quynh and Andromache insist they are still "too new," even approaching one hundred and fifty years each. Yusuf does not feel new, especially not when Nicolò's body lies so still in the near-moonless night.

By the time it is ended, Nicolò is standing again. Two men have become concerned over a thick line of blood along Yusuf's hairline, insisting he must sit down, and does he feel sick?

"Yes, you must take rest," agrees Nicolò who was himself stone dead not thirty minutes ago.

Yusuf grumbles but aquiesces, enjoying Nicolò's mirthful smirking.

-

The leader of their caravan invites them to stay - they will be making the whole journey again in a few months time, and he would have both Yusuf and Nicolò with him, no longer as outsiders, if they wished.

Yusuf thanks the man graciously, but declines. They have their calling already.

After a moment's weighing of words, the man goes on, nodding at nearby Nicolò.

"You travel with him to Jerusalem, then?"

Yusuf agrees.

"There will be some... less welcoming than we. That land still grieves."

"I would not bring him here, if I did not feel able to vouch for him."

It is true to his bones.

The man wishes them luck and returns to his people. The caravan will bear away south, toward the gulf. Nicolo and Yusuf will travel by road, now, toward Jerusalem.

They could easily visit Baghdad, or Damascus - both great cities Yusuf has longed to experience, in fact at this point it is an absurdity for Yusuf to deliberately skirt these cities as he plans. His only reasoning is his zeal to put eyes on Jerusalem again.

-

The land is familiar, now. They traveled this way in urgent escape a century ago, seeking answers to the mystery of their apparent immortality.

Yusuf slips back into this world like water into a pool. The Mosques, their call, his language in the marketplace, its beautifully decorative writing, the curving architecture - small things, so simple and commonplace he never would have thought to take for granted, and yet, here he is, suddenly reminded.

While Yusuf is restored with every step, the more reserved Nicolò becomes. He is shrinking, to Yusuf's eye. The weight of the past bends Nicolò at the neck. He will not be engaged in conversation, he stands behind Yusuf almost as a servant, the palpable awkwardness unsettles everyone they meet.

"They assume you do not know our language," he says one day, annoyed by the gloomy pale cloud floating along behind him. "It appears as rudeness."

This sparks a change. Now, Nicolò says to every person they meet along the road, "peace be upon you," with all the solemnity of the monk he used to be.

Yusuf dispairs of improvement to Nicolò's state, but in his own, laughing way.

-

Nicolò is a gentle man, Yusuf understands that this is a choice he has made to be uncomfortable using strength where another option lies.

Naturally he is captured. Yusuf barters his randsom, certain Nicolò has allowed this because he derives some joy from incoveniencing Yusuf.

Yusuf hears the story of this man's kin who were killed by Franks on their Pilgrimage, though they traveled under protection of a peace treaty. He cannot bring himself to insist that Nicolò had nothing to do with it - after all, if Genoa had produced their immortal a mere hundred years later...?

The men are disinclined to unmanacle Nicolò, and Yusuf is equally disinclined to use violence to compel it.

Nicolò puts up no fuss, speaking for the first time that Yusuf has seen during this ordeal.

"I am sorry for your loss, and I pray their souls find rest."

Yusuf catches surprise writ across the man's face, and he feels his own blood settle somewhat.

They walk further before turning off the road. Yusuf has made outdated assumptions about their safe passage here, and he does not intend to be caught unawares again.

Nicolò clinks along behind him, the sound of the metal almost reminiscent of chainmail.

It is a sign, Yusuf thinks, of how far they have fallen from the comfort of brothers-at-arms by Andromache's side when Nicolò thanks him for spending coin on his freedom.

It angers him, in fact, that Nicolò holds so low an opinion of Yusuf. After all, _Yusuf_ has never invaded a foreign land. _Yusuf_ has never besieged a city. Yusuf has killed more than his fair share of crusading men, to be sure, but since the day he joined with Nicolò, not a shared language between them, Yusuf has been true, he has never behaved but honorably toward Nicolo, never demanding retribution for the crusader's transgressions, not beyond biting words anyway. So what right has Nicolò suddenly to behave thus?

At the same time that the scab has been peeled back revealing the infected depths of Nicolo's apparent mistrust of Yusuf, it has revealed all the more clearly how Nicolò has earned Yusuf's own trust.

Yusuf has known many men in his life who, upon discovering themselves nigh immortal, with a life's span of maybe thousands of years, would easily give into an inflated sense of his own dignity. That Nicolò would be taken in irons rather than use his violent advantage against unsuspecting men - Muslim men at that - it is meaningful. It is the weight of Nicolò's guilt, Yusuf suspects, that keeps him from esteeming himself above other men.

Yusuf does not feel prepared to express all this freshly swirling sentiment, and so instead he laughs.

"As if I could return to Quynh and Andromache without you. _Oh, where is your Nico_?" he switches to Andromache's language, " _I have left him enslaved among my people. How was your visit to the ocean?_ "

He mimes the swing of a great Scythian axe.

Nicolò does not laugh as he should, instead averting his eyes. Yusuf tuts dramatically, anger and hurt sharpening his humor.

"Now," Yusuf says, smirking as he lofts the weighty longsword, "I know how you care for this weapon; do you prefer I take you at the elbow, or would you have me risk notching your blade on these fine iron manacles?"

He makes an exaggerated show of aiming his swing.

Nicolò grimaces. "We are two days from the nearest town, you said?"

Yusuf shrugs, agreeably, "about."

"Then save the blade," he says, "perhaps there will be a smithy."

Yusuf drops his mirthful facade, "I do not understand?"

Nicolò shrugs, uncomfortable. "I am well enough like this. The metal is not tight on my wrist, and I have fine range of motion." He demonstrates, stretching his arms as far as he can apart. Indeed, he is not unduly confined.

Still, Yusuf frowns, "you would follow me through these lands chained in this way?"

Nicolò shrugs, as though unconcerned.

"If you take this chance to slit my throat, know that I will be sure to bleed on you. I know how you favor that tunic."

Yusuf huffs. It does not sit well with him, to leave a companion in chains. He also senses at work Nicolò's tendency toward self-punishment, as though it is only right that he walk this land in irons. But the matter is not Yusuf's to decide.

" _Infernal martyrs_ ," Yusuf grumbles privately.

"I do not know these words," Nicolò inquires, "Arabic?"

"The language of a nomadic people with whom my family once had trade. I do not speak it very well," Yusuf explains.

"Will you teach it to me?"

"No. It is not much used in this part of the world, except when I wish to put voice to my complaints about you."

" _Then I am surprised I have not heard it before,_ " says Nicolò, though he says it in the language of the French, and Yusuf does not understand him.

The foreign speech startles a proper, cheerful laugh out of Yusuf.

"Well met," he says, grinning again and they continue on their journey.

-

There is, indeed, a metalworker's shop. Nothing so complex as Yusuf has seen in other places, but certainly the capacity to break Nicolò's confinement.

"I am Yusuf from Tunis, and this unfortunate man is Nicolò."

He does not claim al-Kaysani in this part of the world - his family's name does him no good, an unprovable connection that brings only questions. Beyond that, it feels wrong, to travel under their name while everyone he loved will have long mourned his apparent death. And Nicolò - well, Yusuf is hardly going to introduce him as being _di Genova_.

He will have to hope this man may recognize their implied plea for privacy, and help them all the same.

"As you see, my friend and I have need of your skill. We have little money, but we will do a day’s work in payment, if you will help us."

The metalworker is suspicious of Nicolò. A man in chains asking to be made free is worthy enough of suspicion, even before his Frankish appearance.

"I will vouch for this man," Yusuf offers, placating, "I know him well and he means no harm. I was a soldier at Jerusalem and you may consider him in my custody."

There have been many battles at Jerusalem since Yusuf himself defended it, and even now he can see the man has doubts - Yusuf looks too young, too whole to claim the honor of a veteran. Perhaps there is something in his eyes or tone, though, because the man obliges their request.

-

Later, once Nicolò is freed, stretched, and discretely healed of his minor burns, they are put to work scrubbing the fire pit, stone floors, and the bellows. They have been working quietly. Yusuf is no stranger to labor, but - more a stranger, clearly, than Nicolò.

"You told that man you take responsibility for me," Nicolò wonders, breaking the metronome of their scrubbing.

Yusuf worries the concept may not have translated and Nicolò has been offended.

"Peace," he says, "I implied no mastery, by vouching I simply put my word as a Muslim behind you. It is nothing to worry over, I assure you."

"I did not misunderstand," says Nicolò, "Just... I wished to thank you, for extending me this courtesy."

Again these offensively low expectations of Yusuf’s character.

"Well don't molest any goats," Yusuf bites, then, "would you not do the same for me, had we been in your land?"

"It would have been unlikely to carry as much weight," Nicolò admits, "Your people recognize you as a man of respect and learning."

"And yours do not value such traits?" Yusuf smirks.

Nicolò, as usual, treats Yusuf's barb as a sincere question. "No, we venerate learned people. Though, it seems to me that we have somewhat fewer," Yusuf snorts, "and I have never been counted among their number."

"You were of a religious order, I thought?"

"Yes," Nicolò confirms, "I took vows of poverty and devotion and sowed the seeds in the fields at our monastery."

"Well - if there were no men to work in the fields, we who write poetry would quickly cease our parchmented toil."

Nicolò agrees, but does not speak further. The matter sits with Yusuf, discomforting him. Nicolò is not a man beset by insecurity, but Yusuf begins to see more clearly why he still expects such poor treatment, even at the hands of a comrade.

"I find it worthy of respect, that your people order their religion such. All men should work the fields, even those of high religious calling."

It is a rare thing, through all their long years, for Yusuf to pay such a compliment to Nicolò's people. It draws out a true smile from Nicolò and the shadows about his face seem to clear.

-

They are fed a meal and given room to sleep, for which Yusuf and Nicolò express immense gratitude. Their aching backs would not have been pleased to sleep on the hard ground - healing aside.

They travel the next day, side-by-side, along the road to Jerusalem. The silence is companionable enough, but Yusuf prefers conversation as he walks.

"It irritates me," Yusuf, complains with exaggerated bitterness, "I earned that boast at Jerusalem, and soon no one will believe me at all."

"I am sure Andromache and Quynh believe your tales."

Yusuf huffs, amused. "It does me no good. We shall have to live long lives and perform many great deeds before Andromache and Quynh will permit us any boasting!"

Nicolò looks at Yusuf with a great depth of sincerity and says in the tone of a vow, "then we will live long lives, and we shall perform many great deeds."

Yusuf feels his heart lurch in his chest. He has never known Nicolò to speak thoughtlessly, and so there is nothing to do but take his word.

"As you say," he offers, and they fall into silence, each focused on his own thoughts.

It occurs to Yusuf that the day's labor may have been a balm on Nicolò - to be made useful to the people he wronged - he certainly seems to have shed more than the weight of the irons. Yusuf had originally planned to stay at inns wherever possible, but he thinks now perhaps they will save both coin and soulful self-torment if they trade labor for harbor instead.

The cynic within sneers, _it would take a very long labor indeed, to undo the damage of that crusade..._ But Yusuf feels sure that if he announced that Nicolò should perform one hundred years of service to the people Jerusalem and Antioch in return for which he would be forgiven his transgressions, well, Nicolò would work very hard for all those long years, in search of such relief.

Yusuf considers the matter seriously for a few moments, but discards it as distasteful. He would not be Nicolò's master, nor would he entrust Nicolò's treatment to his many-wronged people.

For all that Yusuf's furious grief has been made harder by Nicolò's own tormented anguish, Yusuf has come to feel that a balance exists between them. While his mind still sways dizzily at the idea of so long a future spread before him - he and Nicolò will need to face it with equal footing between them.

-

The old Tower of Goliath stands no more. The outermost walls are torn down. Initially Yusuf assumes it happened during Salah Ad-Din's siege, but he comes to learn that it has been done since. The people here anticipate further crusades, and walls only make the city harder to re-take if the Franks should again be successful.

A disheartening thought - this region has had more than it's fill of war. Nicolò shares his grimace.

They pass in heavy silence under the stone gate into the bustling city.

-

Yusuf finds himself keeping a close eye on his companion. He knows what it is he seeks in Nicolò's expression - any insincerity, degradation, judgment against this city or its people, whose forefathers Yusuf suffered so greatly to defend...

He knows, suddenly, that if Nicolò offends him here, in this place, Yusuf will take the matter to deadly violence.

The memories are diluted now, not so visidly crisp. He has fresher memories of visiting many thriving, joyous markets. He has fought many just battles with valiant companions at his back. He has shared this secret immortal life with three others and it has been healing him all the while.

It is not diminished, though. He still tastes the cold horror of seeing these stone streets slicked with flowing blood. He can almost hear the echo of that urgent call – _Breach! Breach! They are through the wall_! He recalls that dreadful moment, with a wooden door to his back and Frankish soldiers before him, when he knew he was alone, alone and doomed, not only to failure, but to survive it. And then the cavernous void of hopelessness that opened in his chest when they were distracted from their slaughter by the realization that he was healing, he wasn't dying...

_Drown the devil, burn the Devil, spear the Devil... deliver the Devil to Rome..._

He wants, suddenly, to reach for Nicolò, and so he does. Nicolò who had prevented that fate, who stands beside him still, who Yusuf knows he can trust.

Nicolò, of course, says nothing to disparage the city or its inhabitants. He tries all manner of foods, he marvels at the colored textiles, speaking Arabic comfortably all the while. The call goes out for prayer and Nicolò recedes into the background, lowering his head, likely conversing with his own God, but drawing no attention to himself or the custom.

-

Yusuf steers through streets almost unchanged by the intervening century of occupation. They come to stand in front of a temple, rebuilt by returned Jewish people of the city. The stone is beginning to show signs of age, settling into position. Yusuf prays it may stand here for all his life.

After merely glancing at the temple, Nicolò becomes flushed, his pale skin has reddened and a sheen of sweat makes him look sickly.

He won't look at the building, he shifts uneasily from one foot to the other.

"You saw," he says to his own feet.

Yusuf nods, watching him. They have never before addressed it, not directly. For all that Yusuf has come to know his companion, he cannot predict how he will respond to this forced acknowledgement.

Nicolò grits his teeth, turns away. His hands are clenched by his sides and his shoulder stiff. Yusuf worries for a moment if the memory will dredge up a violent fit of madness, and he follows closely when Nicolò moves quickly away.

Nicolò turns down a narrow street and sets his shoulders against the tight corner of two buildings. They cannot see the temple from here, and anyone passing along the main street would not see then either.

Yusuf watches Nicolò's face, concerned.

"I wish that you had not," Nicolò says, breathless as though running. Yusuf picks up the thread easily enough.

"A wretched thing," Yusuf acknowledges, "but I admit I was glad of it."

Nicolò's face shutters and he sinks into a crouch, as if sheltering himself.

"I understand," he says, voice soft and low, "I deserved it, many times over."

Martyrs to the last, he thinks, though even inside his own mind Yusuf cannot summon a scoffing tone. Nicolò suffered greatly in that terrible fire.

"You misunderstand me," Yusuf corrects, dropping to match, "I felt no glee at your pain. You could very easily have avoided such a fate. I say I was glad because it gave me reason to have heart when you followed after me into the desert."

It would have been a terrifying thing, to dream of Nicolo's relentless pursuit, if Yusuf had not known of the fire.

"I knew I would awake. It is not as though -"

Yusuf interrupts him. He wishes this matter resolved between them, but he will not cajole Nicolò, beg him to absolve himself.

"Nicolò, we have lived many years since and we have many more left to go. I would have you know that I do not carry this city with me as a cloud hanging over our companionship. Your remorse did not restore this city. Your grief has not resurrected those lost people. Andromache, Quynh, Lykon... we know now, this will be a long road, and I would put our history here behind us."

Nicolò nods, breathing in through his nose and holding it for several seconds, before finally meeting Yusuf's eye at long last.

"The people I killed in my path to this place - they did not rise again. I cannot seek their favor, though I am pleased to have found yours."

Yusuf finds himself smiling. He reaches out to clasp Nicolo around the back of his neck. For only the second time in their long association, Yusuf presses their forheads against each other and together they breathe.

-

Yusuf feels little inclination to visit the Mosque where he was captured, nor the prison where he was held while they constructed his wheeled iron cage. But this city was his home once, and as they walk together Yusuf points out to Nicolò where he was housed, tells him about the friends he made among his cohort. They visit the sites of great religious interest up on the Mount and wander neighborhoods teeming with life.

Nicolò's eyes track a boisterous group of boys charging down the way past them. He swallows, watching them go.

"It is good to see," he tells Yusuf, who agrees wholeheartedly.

They pay gold coin for a meal each and a floor to sleep on, and settle in for the night. Yusuf finds hinself watching the moonlight pass across the wall, hearing echoes of battles long past, when Nicolò speaks into the quiet.

"It makes no difference, but I would have you know. If I could... if I could make it so that I had died and one that I had slain rose up instead, I would do this. So that you might be joined on this long road by one of your brothers in my place."

Yusuf is quiet for a moment, giving Nicolò's weighty sincerity the space and attention it deserves.

"I did not know those people, only that they did not deserve their fate," he acknowledges after some thought, "but even if this thing were truly yours to offer, I still would not trade you away for another."

Open-mouthed shock sits clearly across Nicolò's face, shining unabashed in the moonlight.

He reaches out and places his hand on the earthen floor in the space between their two woven mats, and Nicolò grasps it and clutches tight.

"We are balanced, Nicolò. It is well that we are bound together in this."

Words do not come easily to Nicolò as they do Yusuf, but he sees the other man nod, a quivering twist about his lips.

"Nor I, you" Nicolò says after some time, and releases Yusuf's hand, rolling away to hide his face.

-

They stay for several weeks. There is a building project, improvements being made to one of the outermost watchtowers. Neither of them has any skill or experience with building, so they end up among the mass of brickmakers. It is hard work, but there is catharsis in their labor - even if they cannot be here to defend the city in person, there will be some small contribution of theirs, at least.

Now that he has returned, seen for himself the restored liveliness of the city, Yusuf is eager to move on, and Nicolò appears to agree.

Yusuf has suggested backtracking to Baghdad for an extended stay. Neither have broached Antioch. Nicolò, though, has his own suggestion.

"I am sure Baghdad is as you say, and gladly I would go. I only wonder, as we have come time before we are to meet Andromache and Quynh why not travel further West and visit Tunis instead? I have heard many great things about the poets there, and their impressive harbor."

Yusuf clenches his jaw, only to stop his smile spreading too widely.

"Certainly we can do this. Perhaps, if our timing is right, we could catch a ship over our shared sea, and you might introduce me to Genoa. I would see this Abbey, with it's famous stained glass."

And Nicolò smiles also, radiant in his happiness.

**Author's Note:**

> So I researched this as if I were turning it in for a grade haha but there are still obvious gaps in my religious, cultural, and historical knowledge (also blacksmithing). Feel free to correct me, if something seems off. I have very little idea of what a Christian tourist in Jerusalem would experience after the crusade, so we're just going to go with it. 
> 
> In case it wasn't clear, I have Tunis as Yusuf's hometown. If you look on the map it's quite romantically aligned across the Mediterranean from Genoa ♡ Then he moved into the area around Jerusalem as a young adult, I suppose, in order to end up in the Fatimid army.
> 
> Mostly I wanted to write about Yusuf and his incredible capacity for forgiveness, but naturally found myself consulting 12th century silk road maps.


End file.
